


Entropy

by Transistance



Series: Incompatible [14]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Acting, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon Trans Character, Established Relationship, F/M, Flowers, Restaurants, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6002440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was <i>wondering</i> if, as you will clearly not be attending that get-together and will thus have nobody to make plans with tonight, you would like to come out with me. Together. As...” The moment stretches as he struggles to grasp at what he is trying to express, and he almost falls on the fail safe – 'colleagues' – before pulling himself together. “A date.”</p><p>William convinces Grell to come out for dinner with him, and everything is right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's a date

William knows what Grell is. He has finally managed to put a description to her in relation to himself, and is glad to have reached it. It makes her somewhat more understandable, somewhat less oblique.

There are many things he can state that she is not; she is not a man, as much as people like to tell her that she is; she is not as shallow as she seems, nor as bestial. She is not his lover, but with equal strength not someone who he does not love. She is not unimportant and she is not straightforward and she is not _good_ and not _bad_.

Grell Sutcliff is entropy.

It isn't the first word that he has tacked to her in an effort to make her sit more easily in his head, but it has stuck. She's disorder, chaos, a measure of; the decline of man-made structures toward their most natural points. He has felt her eclipsing influence spread roots though the thick walls that exist around his mind and prise the bricks apart, one by one, with an infinite patience that he has never deserved. She has deconstructed barriers that he wasn't aware existed within him, that were not holding him back but were pinning her down, and he is better than he had been before. For her he is better, because she has reduced him to something favourable without taking away what he is; he is still stone, but a rockery rather than a tower.

He reigns his circling thoughts in and ties them off, adjusts the position of his glasses and opens the door of her office. William has never been much of an actor, but has decided to try in this case anyway; whether for her sake or his own he's not sure. 

She looks up when he enters, surprised, and cocks her head in pleased bemusement. “To what do I owe the pleasure, my love?”

There's a moment in which his mind goes blank, and he almost excuses himself immediately. If she wanted to do this then she would have initiated it; there is no point in running circles; it will just be another mistake... but he swallows the nerves – they have no place in him – and says, “Nothing much. I merely came to ask – I don't suppose you happen to have a stapler handy? Mine seems to have... been misplaced.”

Grell's eyes go _round_.

“I – yes, I believe I do. Let me...” The paperwork is abandoned half way through a sentence, and Grell hauls one desk drawer open and then the other and rakes through both before fishing out what is almost recognizable as a stapler. It has been painted block red, presumably with nail polish, and is covered in tiny black doodles of skulls with varying anatomic accuracy.

“-Here,” she gabbles, thrusting it toward him with an eagerness that would once have disgusted him. “It's a little worse for wear, but it still staples just fine – and I suppose it's time I returned it to you anyway.”

He tries to smile at her, hoping that his honest happiness will come across, and simply says, “Thank you,” before taking it from her hand. 

Grell's eyes narrow in a near-feline display of pleasure, and then she visibly remembers that she is also supposed to be acting and draws herself suddenly up straight, closing both drawers and letting the smile drop from her face. “Well, Spears, now that you have all you came for you should probably go. Try to keep a tighter hold on that this time, hm?”

He doesn't leave, but instead circles round to stand behind her shoulder. She pretends not to pay attention to him, choosing to bend and continue with the paperwork. As far as he can see she is doing a genuinely good job of it, and there's something soothing about the easy loops of her pen filling in the correct spaces with the correct words, even if the ink is red. 

There's silence for a time, until eventually William feels compelled to say, “How long can you keep this up for? It must be terribly tedious.” The words taste like a betrayal.

“I could keep it up forever if I had nothing else on my mind,” Grell murmurs, and he can hear the grin in her voice even if it is not present on her face. 

“What else could you possibly be thinking about?” This is the moment that he realizes that he might actually be _flirting_ with her, and there's a strangely dysphoric moment before her answer comes.

“You're a distraction, Will,” she tells him. “It would be a shame if I didn't get all of this finished – might land us both in overtime. Wouldn't that be awful? Just you and me and a desk between us. You've got what you came for – won't you leave?”

“Not yet. You see, acquiring the stapler was only a cunning ruse to hide my real intentions.” The corner of her mouth twitches, but she manages to hold the illusion of boredom.

“Oh yes? And what might those be, pray tell?”

William moves to her left, and she turns to follow him with her eyes. “Well,” he starts, hesitation all too genuine - “As you may have heard, the majority of our department has planned one of their group dates for tonight. I was wondering if-”

“Ha!” Grell's exclamation cuts across him like a whip, merciless, and then she dissolves into giggles which take slightly too long to quell. “ _Group dates_?” she repeats, as though incredulous, and laughs again. “My dearest deluded darling, I _hate_ to break this to you, but group dates are not – well, suffice to say that my idea of a good night out is rather far from _that_.”

“I'm well aware. I was _wondering_ if, as you will clearly not be attending that get-together and will thus have nobody to make plans with tonight, you would like to come out with me. Together. As...” The moment stretches as he struggles to grasp at what he is trying to express, and he almost falls on the fail safe – 'colleagues' – before pulling himself together. “A date.”

Grell's eyes widen sharply for a moment before the mask is replaced and she tilts her head to consider him.

“Hm _mm_ ,” she says, drawing out the sound as she pulls up a hand to examine her nails – through her gloves - in a theatrical mockery of attention. “- No.”

William pretends both to be hurt and not surprised, and takes a step away from her before speaking again. “Why not?”

“Oh, nothing _personal_ , don't you worry. I just-” breaking off, she waves one hand in a very vague gesture, “-prefer to keep business at work and pleasure at home, that sort of thing. And your company is _invariably_ the former.” 

“You'd accept if I held any intention of sleeping with you,” he accuses in as light a tone as he is able, and only a very tiny hurt flickers across Grell's face before she slaps a hand to her chest and raises her eyebrows high.

“Oh, you wound me! The _suggestion_ that a lady would judge a man for so trivial a matter – why, it's almost unforgivable. You shall have to make it up to me somehow... _Hm_. Oh, don't look so worried – look, what did you have in mind when you suggested a date? Romantic dinner, maybe a nice walk, that sort of thing? Shall we say six sharp-ish?”

Unprepared for her to take the initiative, William nods and says, “That sounds perfect.” Then, because it seems rude to leave abruptly, he leans to kiss her. 

Grell gives a huff of laughter and waves him away after returning the gesture. “Go! Leave me to my paperwork.”

It's easy to smile – or perhaps it is difficult not to smile. But he does leave her, knowing full well that paperwork is the last thing that will concern her, and once outside her door he waits, listening.

There is a moment of silence, and then an excited noise almost high enough to be a squeal and the _crack_ of a reaper jumping away.

William nods to himself and returns to his office.

* * *

At six o'clock sharp William leaves the building, with more than a faint idea of where she will be and a bouquet in his hand. They're roses; it seemed cliché, but he had found far too much choice available in the florists and decided that, cliché or no, the roses were the reddest and would thus do.

The florist also mentioned that different flowers have different meanings. Given the variety available, William hopes that he will not ever be expected to learn them.

Some of his colleagues, passing him on their own ways out, catch his eye and smile a little too knowingly. Several offer good luck, and Ronald Knox claps a hand to his arm and exclaims, “Knew you had it in you, boss!” before sauntering off. He pauses beside a bench, leaning over with his elbows resting on its back to flirt with its occupant for a time. He gestures back at William, grinning, laughs at something the woman says and then leaves.

The courtyard clears quickly, and William finds himself one of only two reapers left – the other being the redhead on the bench, who is waiting for someone too. Her head is slightly inclined as though reading, and her hair is coiled artistically tight around her skull, exposing the white skin of her neck and shoulders to the sunlight. There's an almost unnatural stillness about her; she is poised. Waiting. He approaches anyway.

“You skived off work to get ready for this, didn't you, Grell?”

He's trying to sound annoyed, but recognises that the words only fall as a question. Grell turns to answer, feigning surprise, and she is beautiful.

She doesn't look like a stranger, quite; she looks like a goddess, a more radiant form of her usual self. She has applied enough layers of makeup that her face has lost all natural lines and hardness; she seems almost elfin, smooth-skinned and pointed. This is accentuated by her eyes, bright against the canvas of black and red that blends into her skin and makes them the sole focal point of her face even with her glasses. The glasses help. William has never taken the time to notice that the chain clips are tiny skulls, or quite how _green_ her eyes are on the rare occasions that they aren't peering above the lenses. Every shade present is complementary, artistic and attractive.

Grell's lips are the same vibrant tone as her dress, which is an oddity itself – the neckline is distinctly out of time, looping gracefully under her arms in a way that somehow manages both to accentuate and feminise the shape of her chest. It has no sleeves at all but she has found black gloves that manage to cover to the mid point of her upper arm, matching the decoration of the skirt. He's trying not to be so obvious in looking her up and down so completely, but she knows. She _knows_.

The book on her lap is some Shakespearean play – it isn't a title that William recognises – and she snaps it shut and lets it disappear before answering.

“Oh – Will, Will, _Will_ ,” she purrs. “Skive off work? _Moi_? I've never been more insulted! No, I simply left early and fobbed off my paperwork onto Ronnie. It's all been done. He knows how important this is, and anyway owes me favours. It is simply imperative that a lady look her best on so poignant an evening as this; whilst _you_ can get away with wearing your work attire _I_ cannot! Do not resent me for such things.”

“I don't.” The work has been done, and that is all that is needed to legitimize anything that a reaper feels fit to do with their time. “I brought you flowers,” he adds, as though it is an afterthought, and hands them over. Grell takes them, stares down at them in apparent confusion for a moment, and then says -

“ _You_ skived off work to buy these.” It's a question masquerading as a statement, and William nods.

“I considered it a valuable use of my time.”

Grell's face splits into the sort of grin that threatens to gain a life of its own through the power of sheer terrified joy, and she leaps from her seat to throw her arms around him. 

“How delightfully thoughtful!” she cries, although as her face is half buried in his neck it emerges as a happy if near undistinguishable murmur. Then she pulls back, clutching his arms and grinning, and asks, “Where are we headed? Somewhere respectable, I hope?”

“As though you would be seen anywhere else.”

He takes her hands and they jump together without hesitation and with near perfect cohesion, because both know exactly where they are going. They stumble out of the jump still holding each other, and William tries not to feel the exhilaration in himself but Grell is laughing and laughing even as the humans on the street give them some very odd looks. 

She's glorious.

Retracing the steps from months ago is difficult but not impossible, and it occurs to him that the route is nowhere near as convoluted as he had felt it to be before. He had been on edge, then uneasy with the idea of being so alone with Grell.

They walk in an easy silence, his arm around her waist and hers somewhere on his back. It is not the most comfortable state to walk in, but she's smiling as though she's won the world and he doesn't want to let go of her. He owes her this much. The murmur of the main street is still audible detached though they are, cut off from society and yet still close enough to touch. William wonders if Grell feels the same contemplative subduction from reality that he does, sometimes, on quiet moments such as this, and decides that it does not matter either way. The sun is still bright when they reach their end point, edging the roof-tops in white, and he says “This is it,” with full redundancy.

“Is it a pub?” she asks, as though she has no idea, and raises her eyebrows high. “Dear dear, I do hope you do not intend to see me _drunk_ , Mr Spears!”

“Nothing of the sort. It isn't so drab as it appears - and serves very good food, anyhow. I know it's quiet, perhaps not your style, but I think you will like it.”

“Do you come here often?”

“I've only been here once, but it was one of the most pleasant evenings of my life.”

There have been changes since then; the sign has been repainted, and the windows are almost transparent. There's a shallow window box on both ledges, full to bursting with primroses in an abundance of colours - none of which look quite natural, but all of which look brilliant.

William holds the door open for Grell as though he is her footman, and she makes the effort to lift her skirts as she steps inside.


	2. Then to awaken, and find the world anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally every line can be read as a metaphor, whoops
> 
> But look at that! It's finished! Hopefully it concludes well. It has been near half a year since I started posting these and more than a year since I started writing them, and now they are done. The relief is immense.

It is quiet inside the Stag's Head; the place seems to hum with cheerful warmth, more than two thirds full of people but not noisy enough to seem crowded. William is glad of the atmosphere – glad that it is friendly, and glad that it has remained a constant.

A half-familiar waiter greets and seats the reapers, giving Grell a polite smile and William a mildly surprised look and a generic “It's good to see you again, Miss Sutcliff,” back to Grell, and then leaves them be.

The menu has changed – presumably due to seasonality – and he hears Grell murmur, “A whole _selection_ of Italian wines that weren't here before,” before she glances up, catches his eye and smiles. “This is such a lovely little place – we should come here more often.”

There is nothing to do but to agree wholeheartedly, and William wonders if he should have done this sooner. Is it customary to revisit the memorable places in situations such as theirs? Or is it better for anniversaries; occasions? This is protocol alien to everything he has ever been, but Grell seems delighted with it all and that, he feels, is all that really matters here.

They both end up ordering a sole dish, and Grell looks up at William with appraisal in her eyes before asking, “Are you a pescy, Will?”

“...I'm sorry, a what?”

“Pescetarian. You'll eat fish but not meat.”

William is almost certain that pescetarian is not a word that can or should be shortened, but decides not to call her out on it. “No, not particularly. I am happy to eat meat; I just do so rarely, because there always seems to be more variety in other meals.”

“Variety, hm? I think you've just not tried enough takes on cooking it. I'm sure I could put forth some suggestions, _if_ you want.” The way that she's speaking suggests some double entendre within her words, but William doesn't bother to attempt to decipher it.

“That would be nice,” he replies. “Your suggestions usually carry some logic behind them, even if they seem strange at first.” Grell nods, accepting the convoluted compliment, and her lips twist into a pleased smirk.

Her personality shines through when she's like this, in her element; unrestrained. Nobody is telling her who or what she can and cannot be, so naturally she is herself – somebody that he had never seen before, because he had never tried to. Nothing of her vivacity has been lost, nor any part of her extravagance in terms of gestures, bright excitement or spectacular spiels about her feelings, but her happiness is more genuine, more predictable and tied to earthly things. She has shed one coat of falsehoods and then another, casting aside each layer anew as he has become close enough to her not to care.

It's a miracle that she never managed to break her way into him before – but perhaps this is a good thing. In the past they were different people, and neither had the capacity to be so understanding of the differences that made them so mutually isolated. They have matured together-apart, close enough to influence but not to cloy, and perhaps that he can touch her with intent of anything but harm now in some way makes up for every time he has taken it upon himself to hurt her previously. He can only pray that this is so, but remains aware that he is not deserving of her forgiveness.

These thoughts are dour, unwanted and out of place in an evening that is supposed to be a reminder that they are working now instead of scratching and butting heads as they have in the past. They are partners again, and that is something to be celebrated.

Glancing up is mostly accidental, but he finds Grell watching him and holds her gaze easily until she speaks.

“You're staring a bit, darling,” she says - there's laughter in her eyes. “Something on your mind, hm?”

“Just you.”

Grinning wide, Grell doesn't let the comment sit; instead she diverts the conversation elsewhere as easily as conducting music, compelling it this way and that as naturally as anything that he has ever been part of. She hounds his opinion on the new mortal prime minister, speculates on whether the latest outbreak of influenza will cause an increase in paperwork, and explains to him in great depth the latest fluid trends in the fashion industry. The words mean little to him, but he tries to follow their twirling patterns anyway and gives comment once or twice. Tweed, he agrees, should definitely not be making such good progress. Less restriction of movements in dresses seems like a good idea. Nobody will miss bustles.

The food turns out to be very good. It's difficult to pay attention to cuisine when attempting to prop up half a conversation, William discovers, especially with Grell. She manages somehow to become more talkative even though with his drab contributions she has less space in which to speak, and William finds himself able to appreciate in full how variable her vocals are. Her voice dips and rises like a bird in flight, touching notes that should be too sharp to sound in any way pleasant and diving down to points where it is almost a growl, androgynous and feral. Nobody else speaks like that – nobody else can. It is a right reserved for her alone.

The evening glides ever forward and Grell does not stop talking, does not run dry or tired, and somewhat miraculously does not steer the conversation anywhere near the office - although neither of them have requested its specific avoidance. She makes quick gestures with her hands that sometimes mean nothing and sometimes articulate the world, becoming more and more animated the freer she feels to speak. It's amazing that she can muster such life and express it in so benevolent a way, utterly without worry or need to censor herself. Never, never before would he have paid such attention to her words, much less backed them with his own opinions, much less let her go on without growing irritable. Perhaps he has mellowed, or grown more tolerant – the phrasing of the blessing doesn't matter.

They talk and talk about things that have no real bearing on either of them, things that they'll forget before sunrise tomorrow, things that mean nothing in and of themselves but somewhat ease the gap that manages still to persist between them. He learns several of her more obscure turns of phrase, exactly which situations make her roll her eyes, what she thinks of small dogs. He learns that he can speak about things without relevance too, and make space for considerations that have nothing to do with paperwork or the office or himself or her.

After the plates have been cleared and a brief discussion held, they order desserts but decide against more wine – one shared bottle has been enough – and Grell tosses her hair back and laughs at something he says. It's a discordant sound still full of the recollection of grated nerves and flirtations too full of aggressive intent to have been enjoyable on either side, but he cannot fault her for it; even as it touches him again it is becoming something else, filled with connotations that are not so bitter.

Eventually, as the light from outside begins to glint orange and the tables around them begin to seem sparse, they agree without speech that it is time to leave. The waiter - with almost superhuman intuition - appears with the bill a moment before it has been asked for. Grell's eyebrows raise when she catches sight of the total, and she offers to pay half. William gives her a look that he hopes sums up his every feeling on the offer before paying for them both.

They stand and Grell thanks the waiter in a way that quietly suggests that she is sleeping with him, so William takes her arm and gently but firmly leads her out. She turns her attentions immediately away from the man and latches onto William, pulling him gently down to a dawdle, and then a stop just beyond the door.

Her expression is full of what seems to be good-natured adoration, and he finds himself having to resist the urge to kiss her. Everything is silent, still – but now is not the time.

He jumps, and she is with him, and even though he has to pause to catch breath when they arrive so suddenly in their own realm it is more than worth it. Spring's ghost touches his face in a breeze that has no place in so dead a realm, making the few tresses of Grell's hair that are loose rise and fall. There is always merit in landing outside buildings when going from one realm to another, and this is it.

The sky is clear and azure blue.

There's a garden around the house that they stand before, framed by a black gate and fence that do nothing but highlight the colours held within. The grass is as green as her eyes, a contrast to the vivid spattering of the irises and bluebells hidden in the bog garden and the tiny daises that catch light in the lawn. A row of tulips sits neatly potted on the porch, crimson and yellow in random alteration that seems chaotic but is unavoidable from mixed seeds. Roses grip the walls around the windows; a paler shade than those that still rest in Grell's hand. 

The rhododendron’s flowers are in burning bloom, a gorgeous deep scarlet that swamps its corner of the plot. The ornamentals – which he hadn't a name for but Grell has informed him are cherry trees, bred out of the ability to fruit in order to allow their blossom to last longer – reflect the colour of the water lilies in the pond, and the ash tree is in emerald health. Everything is alive, a strange blessing for the reaper realm.

“You brought me home,” says Grell, softly. “Thank you.”

A flock of pigeons are scratching about at the ground, and pay no attention to the reapers until they get too close – at which point one startles and the rest follow suit, bursting into flight. Grell follows their movement and he follows hers, because he has seen pigeons plenty of times before but is still adjusting to looking at Grell and seeing her as who she is rather than who he believes her to be.

At the door they pause for thought and there's a slight blip before Grell says, “-Do come in.”

Her home is as William expects in to be, because he lives there. There's not as much red as one might assume – the hallway is stately in white, and the sitting room is furnished with black furniture and burnished hardwood tables. The only colour in the room is on the shelves on the wall; a semi-ordered mess of precious objects that he still doesn't quite know the history behind. Some of her photographs stand forefront, happy. 

He catches her eye and she grins, so he offers her a seat on the couch. Unexpectedly she declines – but makes her reason known as she twirls the roses in her hands and informs him that they simply _must_ be put in a vase before they get too droopy, and ponders aloud whether they will stay fresher in this realm than the mortal one. “We could even try planting them!” she suggests, excitement visibly racking up. “In this weather they'd need watering all too often, but I think they'd grow spectacularly.”

“There's space enough along the walls for them, if they can take root.” William tries to tell himself that he doesn't need more plants to neglect. William fails due to the way Grell's whole face lights up as though she has never heard a more appealing idea. But then it falls into something contemplative, and she strides to the window to peer out into the evening.

“Ah, but it'll be dark soon... Perhaps I should just place them in a vase and let them be until morning. Yes, that's a better idea.”

He's not certain that he owns a vase – but Grell does, of course, and when she sweeps through to the kitchen and he gets to his feet again to go after her he is unsurprised to find her hunting one down. She examines several that have at some point made a home in the glassware cupboard before choosing one that is elongated and delicate, and cuts the stems of each flower to an angle with some care - “It makes them live longer,” is the rationale given – before arranging them in the vase and centring it on the table. There's an absolute concentration in everything adjustment that she makes, a characteristic more often associated with him than herself, until the set-up reaches acceptability in her view.

“Perfect,” she murmurs, and steps back to lean against William, twisting her head to speak against his shoulder. “Come and help me slip into something more comfortable, will you? It's getting late.”

William nods, and follows her through to the bedroom without a word. 

The lights are off, but it's practically midsummer; the evening rays of the sun percolate through the curtains and wash the room gold. They catch Grell's flawless skin and make her body appear to glow, like some radiant deity resplendent through health and joy. She stands in the light, statuesque and motionless like an artificial creature created solely to be beautiful, and only when he is within touching distance of her does the illusion break as she turns to him.

“Help me,” she says simply, making a vague gesture toward her own back. “You've no idea how much time I spent just getting myself into this thing.”

It's the first time that he has ever looked at a dress in the understanding of how it is worn and with the aim of removing it from a body, and what had been a relatively simple article of clothing becomes suddenly incredibly complex. Grell turns and snorts in amusement, presumably at his expression, and attempts to guide him. “The back, look – buttons and laces. Nothing terribly exciting.”

It is delicate work not suited to his hands, but in theory the undoing should be easy. Buttons have never been new. Neither are laces a novelty. It is made marginally more difficult through the fact that Grell is moving – peeling her gloves from her arms slower than can be necessary, carefully removing her heels without bending down – but nonetheless, piece by petty piece, the back of her dress loosens under his attention. There are more layers of clothing under it – a chemise that is impressively non-Victorian, which he assumes is hand made, and upon finally parting the web of fastenings on her back he is rewarded with more laces, belonging to a corset that is pulled painfully taunt.

“Do you usually do this alone?”

“No – usually with someone who cares less about getting it off carefully and more about getting at what's underneath.”

William doesn't answer that – how can he? - but pauses to just hold her. Leaning down – and he has to lean; the height Grell loses when she steps out of her shoes is incredible – he kisses the crook of her neck, and she sighs and leans back and seems for a moment to lose herself. “ _Will_ ,” she breathes, holding the note of his name for just a moment longer than necessary to ensure that he knows that the name is only important because of who it belongs to.

And then she's stepping out of the dress with an impressive dexterity for one so bound, holding it close so as not to let it touch the floor as she does so. This reveals an underskirt – a petticoat? William has never paid heed to the terminology – that is held up by, to his absolute consternation, more laces.

He does manage not to groan aloud, but it's a close-run thing.

This round seems easier, perhaps because her own hands are warm and brush against his fairly often as she attempts the same manoeuvres as he does to help free herself. They work in a fumbling cohesion that does get the job done, albeit without any speed – but then again, there is no rush. It is somewhat calming to work with Grell like this, in silence and on something so alien to him.

She stops when she is left standing in the chemise to open the wardrobe, indicates a row of nightdresses carelessly with one hand and tips her head at him. “Which do you think?”

“I think you could wear anything and look beautiful in it.”

Grell snorts. “No, I can assure you that's not true. Still, how _gallant_ to leave free choice to me... How about this one?”

It's red, of course - but a soft shade. It has a neckline designed to show off assets that Grell has never had, and there's something sad about the practicality of the darts across each breast, tailoring the article to fit her unconventional figure. William has never seen her wear it before, but it's definitely not new.

“It's nice,” he tells her. “Not quite your usual style.”

“It's red, isn't it? Have I more definition than that?” 

“I wouldn't know where to start on correcting you there.”

“Hm.” She begins to put it on so he turns away, moving to retrieve his own pyjamas from the drawer. He makes the mistake of turning again enough to acknowledge Grell, who is in the process of letting her hair down. The distraction in her is obvious even as she combs it out, strand by strand.

Grell watches him undress with that vague, wistful look that she always adopts when eyeing things that she knows she can't have, and he pities her for it. For a time he watches her watching him, disallowing himself to alter his movements under her gaze, and eventually her eyes snap away to the floor as though ashamed.

“I need to go and-” she motions to her face, smiles in a rather self-deprecating way and then vanishes into the bathroom. He lets her go, and finishes pulling on his nightwear. He places his glasses on the windowsill, then, and makes himself comfortable in the bed.

When she returns, she is just Grell again, albeit plainer. Her eyes lose a bit of their vivacity without the mascara's outline, and her masculinity becomes a little more obvious, but these are not bad things. It makes her more earthly; more tangible. And she is still more than beautiful; the lines of her cheekbones stand out without makeup obscuring them, and the tone of her skin is slightly healthier than the almost chalk-white that she seems to favour. Managing somehow to move lightly enough that her feet appear unaffected by gravity, she drifts over to the bed – pausing to deposit her glasses on the cabinet - but rather than pulling the covers to join him she perches on its edge, leaning back half-close to him and is just still, like that, for a time.

Eventually Grell reaches across, slowly enough to resemble some predator waiting in the slim fragments of time before the strike, and for a moment her hand curls back into a hesitant fist before it creeps forward again to press fingers close against his scalp, fussing his hair into the messy bed-head that he supposes she must be used to by now. Indeed she murmurs, “There, that's better” - more to herself than him – before looking at him with all her soul in her eyes and smiling all too softly before bending to kiss his forehead, one hand caressing his cheek until their lips are meeting on and off, and between the two of them they are whole. 

“Lie with me,” he breathes when given the opportunity to do so, and she ignores the words until she sees fit to lift the covers and push herself underneath. Simply being beside him seems not to satisfy her, because she raises herself onto her elbows and drags herself to kneel above him, holding the position for long enough to meet his eyes and kiss him on the mouth once more. Then she lets herself down on top of him, gently, gently, until their bodies are together and she is his and he hers and they are everything that exists and it is wonderful.

She presses kisses down his neck with a deliberate lack of speed that manages to suggest that she wishes to devour him, fumbling with the buttons on his nightshirt in an attempt to allow her cold hands access to his chest. He does nothing to dissuade her, bringing his own hands up to touch her waist, feel the curve of her ribs, until he begins to feel the stirrings of discomfort and - bless her - she stops. There's a shortness to her breaths, a moment where she stays utterly still, and then she pulls away from him to find space on the open expanse of the bed instead of him.

Her movements are a comfort, as is her presence so close – there is light enough still to make out her face, filled in equal parts with contentment and some careful gauge of whatever his own expresses, framed by the mess of crimson hair and entirely open now. He does not know if she used to hide her emotions under any mask, but here, inches from her, there is no disillusion between either of them as to the exact composition of each other.

They lie pressed close to one another sharing breaths that they do not need to take, as though they are alive, as though they are anything but incompatible. There's more than a little artifice between them, as he ignores the lust in her and she ignores the apathy in him; they have both lived long enough under the protective wing of pretence long enough to recognise when it is an asset.

He has no idea what she is thinking – but, suddenly, he has to know.

“Why do you have feelings for me, Grell?”

She considers it, tipping her head onto its side as though examining him. “If I answer that, you know I will ask the same of you.”

“I'm aware.”

There's a silence – at first he assumes that she isn't going to answer, or is considering side-stepping the question entirely. But then she says, slowly, “You have to understand – why I love you now is wholly different to why I fell in love with you at first,” and then stops, waiting for whatever cue he can give to continue.

He nods, encouraging her forward, and a brief smile flashes across her face before she pulls away from him enough to speak her mind.

“I have feelings for you because... Because you're unique. You're... you're like a geode, Will; you know, those rocks that look like everything but special on the outside, until they get cracked and you find suddenly that they're beautiful. You've always had your back to me and never shown your face, never let anyone in – maybe never even tried to understand yourself. I have never known a man so cold and yet devoid of that particularly spitting shade of pride that drips hate and disfigures love with the desire to do harm, never known someone so detached to have no clear reason for being so. You're raw as of yet, still forming after all these years that have tried to make you set, and I love that you - _you_ , ice prince without a heart – I love that you remain capable of change even after having been static so long.” She breaks off, flushed slightly, and adds, “And you're gorgeous and well-spoken and have always been close to my heart too, of course, my love.”

She seems to retreat briefly somewhere else, beyond the frigid confines of reality perhaps, but shakes herself and blinks at him. “Why do you have feelings for me, then?”

“I love you because you have the capacity for more kindness than anyone I have ever known, express it in ways that make no sense at all, and for some reason that I cannot and do not want to fathom never gave up on me even when I was nothing but cruel to you.” There. It's said. There are a thousand other reasons that he could have listed – nicer reasons, that are more straightforward and lighter on the tongue - but these seem the most honest. He wants to be nothing but honest to her now.

Grell laughs – and laughs and laughs until she is hoarse, until she's crying. She tries viciously to rub the tears from her face but seems only to be hurting herself, so William takes her hands in his to still them and does it for her.

“Never leave me,” she manages, voice spent, and it's a request, not a command. 

“Of course,” he replies, and watches as she splinters again. 

Very quietly he queries as to what has upset her, but she only shakes her head violently and grins through the tears and buries her head in his chest, clasping her arms tight around him as though he's the most solid bearing in her world. When he repeats the question – because he's _worried_ , terrified that she feels some deep disconsolation that will not be aided by physical comfort alone – she laughs again in an entirely different tone and the words that spill between them are nothing akin to anything that he expects.

“I'm not _upset_ – but I'm in your bed, Will! And I have given myself to you and you have given yourself to me and we're _together_ , you're _with_ me – I never thought – never really believed – I'm not upset. Never upset. I'm merely... a little overwhelmed. It's silly, I know.”

“I don't understand,” he admits, and she smiles with blotchy affection and shakes her head again, more gently.

“I can only pray that you never will,” she murmurs, voice steeped in terrible sincerity. “My love is something _bright _, constricting, and I believe that to feel it as I do might just burn you out.”__

__The instinct is to assure her that she's wrong, that he feels more than he will ever be able to express, but he's aware that if she's the sun then he is only the moon; a pale reflection of how she is able to love. William's feelings for Grell are at odds with hers for him – they are rooted in different circumstances, different assumptions and a different side of the same past. If hers are immense and incandescent then his are subtle, glowing, a field of candles in place of a bonfire._ _

__But there is light there nonetheless, something growing and alive, and he does love her. More than she can know and more than he can comprehend. Nothing exists that can be said to convey this across to her, so he only holds her closer and she turns herself in his embrace to reach a more comfortable position and presses back against him until there's no barrier between them but her hair, their clothes, their skin. He puts an arm across her, palm spread across the lowest bar of her ribs, and her own hands move to lock fingers with his. The only sounds in the world are those of her breaths and his heartbeat, the only sensation that of her back rising and falling against his chest, at ease at last, until she stills into that particularly disquieting shade of peace that she perfects._ _

__Her hair falls across them both, bright like life and death and passion and _Grell_ , like everything that he isn't. In the dusky half-dark there is no clear colour to it; the lines are imprecise. That she ends and he begins somewhere is not a concept that makes sense. They belong to each other, in a way that should be out of place but feels only right and they lie, together, relaxed in some indeterminate shade of bliss._ _

__Long after he believes her asleep, Grell mumbles a question._ _

__“Are you - happy? Will?”_ _

__There's a silence as the question is considered. And then, softly and emphatically, nothing but truth -_ _

__“...Yes.”_ _


End file.
